The Glove Remembers.

Chapter 3: The Detective.

#Hayes is at the door. The glove made a fist. Time to see what happens when the law meets the dead.

Three knocks. Hard enough to rattle the lock.

“Amara? It’s Kelechi. Open up. We need to talk about your sister’s glove.”

The left glove in my hand was ice. So cold it burned. The right glove on the table stayed in a fist. No more pointing. Just… waiting.

Tunde mouthed _don’t_. He was still on his knees, phone between us on the floor, Zara’s last text glowing. _Meet me at Blend. It’s about him._

Him.

I looked at the door. Then at Tunde. Then at the glove.

It didn’t move.

Hayes knocked again. “Amara, I know you’re awake. Your neighbor heard screaming.”

Lie. My walls were concrete. My neighbor was deaf.

“One minute,” I called. My voice didn’t shake. That scared me more than anything.

I shoved the left glove into the waistband of my shorts. Against my skin it felt like holding a corpse’s hand. I kicked Tunde’s phone under the bed. He stared at me, eyes wide. _Trust me_, I mouthed.

I didn’t know if I did.

I opened the door.

Detective Kelechi Hayes filled the frame. 42, gray at the temples, built like he’d played rugby and never stopped. He was in jeans and a black polo at 2:20 AM. No badge. No car I could hear.

His eyes went to my face. Then to the table behind me.

To the right glove. Still in a fist. Still alone on a table that shouldn’t exist.

He didn’t blink. “You found it.”

Not a question.

My mouth went dry. “How did you—”

“May I come in?” He stepped forward before I answered. Cop instinct. Take the space.

Tunde appeared in the bedroom doorway. Shirtless. Guilty. “Detective.”

Hayes didn’t look surprised to see him. “Tunde. Didn’t know you were here.”

Another lie. He knew.

Hayes walked straight to the table. Didn’t touch the glove. Just studied it. “Black leather. Right hand. Zara wore it every day.” He looked at me. “Where’s the left?”

The one at my waist turned to frost. I didn’t flinch. “There was only one.”

“Amara.” His voice softened. The voice he used when he gave me Zara’s death certificate. “Grief makes us see things. Hold things. But you need to give me that glove.”

“What glove?” Tunde said. Too fast.

Hayes smiled without teeth. “The one that’s burning her right now.”

I stepped back. “You’re not here officially. No badge. No warrant. It’s 2 AM.”

“Three months ago, your sister jumped off Blend’s rooftop.” He ignored me. Talked to the glove instead. “Case closed. Suicide. Then last week, evidence locker 17-B was broken into. One item missing.” He finally looked at me. “Her glove. The left one. It was tagged and sealed. Only three people had access.”

The air in my apartment changed. AC was still at 18°C. But I could see my breath.

“Who?” I said.

“Me. The evidence clerk. And the person who checked it out yesterday at 3:14 PM.” He pulled out his phone. Showed me a security still.

Me.

Walking into Central Police Station. Holding a visitor’s badge. Signing a clipboard.

Except I hadn’t left my apartment yesterday. I’d been editing a true crime podcast about the Apo Six. All day. My laptop’s search history could prove it.

“That’s not me,” I said.

“It’s your face, Amara.”

The left glove at my waist pulsed. Once. Hard.

And I remembered.

Not yesterday. The night Zara died.

I _was_ at Blend. Not on the roof. At the bar. I’d followed her. We fought. My last words: _“You’re always so dramatic, Z.”_

I left. Went home. Drank. Blacked out.

Tunde found me on the bathroom floor at 3 AM. Said I’d been screaming in my sleep.

What if I wasn’t asleep?

What if I went to the station?

What if I took the glove?

“Amara?” Tunde’s hand was on my arm. I hadn’t realized I was swaying.

Hayes stepped closer. “The glove’s dangerous. Your sister thought so too. That’s why she was investigating me.”

The word hit like a slap. _Investigating._

“Zara was a journalist,” I said. “She investigated everyone.”

“She was investigating corruption in the Force. My unit specifically.” Hayes’ eyes flicked to Tunde. “She had a source inside. Someone feeding her case files.”

_It’s about him._

Tunde. Or Hayes.

Or both.

The right glove on the table relaxed. Fingers splaying out. Palm up again. Waiting.

Hayes saw it. “Don’t.”

Too late.

I pulled the left glove from my waistband and dropped it onto the table. Next to its twin.

They touched.

The temperature in the room dropped 10 degrees in one second.

The lights flickered.

And for the first time, I heard her.

Not a voice. A _feeling_. In my head. In my bones.

_LIAR._

The word wasn’t mine.

Hayes stumbled back. His hand went to his service weapon. He wasn’t wearing one.

Tunde grabbed my wrist. “Amara, whatever you’re doing—”

The gloves moved. Together. Left slid into right. Like they were holding hands.

And they pointed.

Both of them.

Straight at Detective Kelechi Hayes.

He went white. “She can’t— It’s not possible—”

The front door slammed shut on its own. Locked.

From the bedroom, Tunde’s phone rang.

Unknown number.

On the table, the joined gloves curled into one fist.

And then they knocked.

Once. On the wood.

_Knock._

From inside the gloves.

Hayes whispered, “Oh God. She’s still in there.”

*Chapter 4: _Knock Knock*_ next? The phone is ringing. The gloves are knocking. Someone’s gotta answer.